


Storm Clouds

by NothingAlarming



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingAlarming/pseuds/NothingAlarming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visiting Bitter Springs was not as cathartic as Craig hoped it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Clouds

She knew as soon as she looked him over good that Boone was a troubled man. His dearly departed wife aside, the man walked around in his dusty cargos like there was a rock wedged up in his rear. Cleaned his gun like a jaded friar recites scripture, and having just as much personality. So when he finally mentioned Bitter Springs she wasn’t surprised. She dosed him in equal parts with understanding and silent resentment on the long trek up to Coyote Tail Ridge, and that seemed to suit him fine.

Whether or not she trusted the NCR—she didn’t—it was, or used to be anyhow, home sweet home as far as falling back on things went. So it came to be that she heard in hushed snippets what happened in the somber year of 2279 in Bitter Springs, Nevada, and while she knew of tribal skirmishes, that incident was another thing entirely.

It was as Miss Cassidy had said. Too many soldiers get fucked by their orders, and he was no different.

The dirt on the graves was a dusty gray, packed tight, in stark contrast with the great orange rocks looming on either side. It could be called artful, but the courier wasn’t about to run her mouth about the beauty of these tribes while her companion sobbed quietly at the end of a smaller patch of dirt. A child’s grave.

The courier was nothing if not tactful.

She’d been good at holding her tongue for the most of it. He didn’t speak much and when he spoke it was in short staccato bursts of things that seemed to be the end of each black-tinged tangent. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help, no, that wasn’t it, it was that she knew her words would be as pointless as rocks thrown against his mountain of anguish.

Despite that, her heart sank as it dawned on her that there was truly little difference left between the man beside her and the decaying bodies beneath them.

Finally, she sighed, loud enough to interrupt whatever static buzzed in his head. He turned to her ever so slightly.

“Being here will not help you.” The courier left her mouth open a moment, then closed it again, shaking her head. So much for tact. She was no longer sure where her sentences should start or end, but she knew that was right. “This is only rubbing salt in things. You need therapy. Real help.” She near mumbled.

He turned his head back to the dirt-beds in front of him with an empty expression.

A thin breeze worked its way into the crevice, warm but not unwelcome.

She kicked a pebble, sending it skittering toward the Ridge with yellow dust flailing behind like smoke. Boone was still crouched when she turned back to him, her nerves more than prickled at this point. It was easy to forget how young he was sometimes. She could say a lot of things, but it was better suited for someone who wouldn’t clock him halfway through.

“You done moping?”

She doesn’t understand, he thought. But did he? He’d sooner sit Dr. Usanagi down for drinks than discuss the finer points of the massacre of 2279, but it was a thought.

A thought.

He stood, shook the grime off his pants. And though the movement felt devoid of any real feeling, he nodded.


End file.
